


Statice, Harmony, and the Art of Grieving

by NETHERW4RT



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Arguing, Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Light Angst, Platonic Life Partners, Swearing, barely even there tbh, dream is only mentioned tho, in reference to the rantub marriage, its brought up, very very minimal amounts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29824938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NETHERW4RT/pseuds/NETHERW4RT
Summary: Tubbo mourns; Ranboo comforts.
Relationships: Ranboo & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Comments: 7
Kudos: 103
Collections: Archivists Font Challenge





	Statice, Harmony, and the Art of Grieving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ink_Quills](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ink_Quills/gifts).



> sort of lore-based, sort of not? lol
> 
> font: eb garamond
> 
> prompt: lesser of two evils

“Do you remember?” Tubbo takes in a shaky breath, clutching the stem of a purple statice in his palm. He almost snaps it in half, but Ranboo places a quiet, comforting hand on his shoulder and the brunet relaxes into it. He’s still trembling, though. “I remember,” he continues. “I remember it all—every last bit. You were a ray of light in every dark time we ever had.”

A gust of wind passes through, rustling treetops, shrubbery, the grass below, and even their clothes. It’s hard to care. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Tubbo mutters, laughing bitterly as his free hand rubs at dry eyes. “I can’t cry—I want to, so desperately, I want to cry for you. I want to show you just how much you mean— _meant_ to me, but I can’t. Isn’t that funny? Isn’t that funny, Tommy?”

A dull, grey headstone stares back at him. It doesn’t speak—it _can’t_ , he reminds himself. Ranboo says nothing either and the silence is so painful that static rings throughout his ears. Tubbo falters as the world spins for a mere second, sturdying himself in Ranboo’s grasp. 

“Shit,” he whispers, though there are still no tears. There are no tears and it hurts and he hates himself for it but Tubbo cannot for the life of him get a single salty bead to spill down his cheeks. The guilt rises as he glances back at Ranboo, the dark, deep scars cascading down his cheeks like waterfalls seeming to mock him.

_I have cried for a friend I barely had. Yet you cannot cry for him who you called your best?_

“I can’t.” Tubbo’s voice is broken. He shakes Ranboo from his shoulder and kneels down, hands shaking as they settle the statice between the headstone and a small rock to keep the wind from blowing them away. 

“Do you,” Ranboo’s voice carries across the quiet wind, “want me to leave you alone for a while?” He sounds uncertain, fingers playing with the flaps of his suit. 

“I don’t know,” Tubbo answers honestly. He doesn’t want to be alone, but there’s a gnawing feeling telling him that he always will be, now. There is no Tubbo without his Tommy. “I want...to be alone. I want to be with someone,” he babbles. “I don’t know what I want. I want nothing and everything. I just—I want _Tommy_.”

Ranboo swallows dryly. “I’m sorry,” he says, for lack of any real comforting words. Tubbo can tell that he’s pushing everything down, but who is he to complain about Ranboo when he’s doing the same thing himself? He still hasn’t even fully accepted this outcome—surely Tommy is still alive, somewhere, hiding and waiting to spring out of the earth and laugh in everyone’s faces for falling for such an elaborate prank.

But he saw the corpse. He saw it with his own two eyes, traced every cut and bruise across his body until there was bile rising in his throat and he had to excuse himself. Nobody questioned him or scolded him. They let him leave silently.

He should’ve stayed—should’ve been stronger. He should’ve done something. He should’ve _helped_.

He didn’t.

Ranboo is equally as guilty, Tubbo thinks, but he is not nearly as devastated. It’s the hurt that twists in your stomach and holds your heart like you can’t breathe and you feel nauseous at every single goddamn second but you cannot, for the life of you, _cry_. It’s a dull emptiness, not quite heartbreaking, but so fucking painful that it just _sits there_ and mocks you internally until you go crazy. It’s like the ticking of a clock in a silent room, all alone.

“What do I do, Ranboo? I don’t know what to do.”

Ranboo lets his gaze fall to the grass, then around them—around the graveyard—and then back to Tubbo. “I don’t—I shouldn’t be the one to tell you to do anything,” he says finally. A lump builds itself in the back of the brunet’s throat. 

“We got _married_ ,” Tubbo spits pitifully. If he’s honest, he can’t truly regret it—Ranboo is his close friend just as much as Tommy was, if only a little less. “We shouldn’t have gotten married.”

“We didn’t know,” Ranboo returns, though he’s not pushing for anything. It’s a failed comfort.

“He was stuck in there, Ranboo!” Tubbo shouts, clutching at the fabric of his tie. His knuckles turn white and his nails dig into his palm even through the red cloth and it _hurts_ , but he believes he deserves it and doesn’t loosen his grip. “He was stuck with _Dream_ of all people! We _know_ what Dream can do—what he _has_ done! We— _I_ left him to die. He died. He’s dead, Ranboo.”

Ranboo stiffens and clasps his hands in each other. “I know he is,” he says quietly, but there’s something firm behind his words. “Tubbo, you can’t—you can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”

“Whose fault is it then, Ranboo? _Yours_?”

“Mi—Maybe. Maybe it is, Tubbo. I did just as little as you did.”

Tubbo scoffs and finds himself laughing again. It hurts. “Your fault. It’s _your_ fault? If it’s not mine, why is it yours? Were _you_ his best friend, Ranboo?”

“I—I wasn’t,” he answers, slow and careful. “It was always you, Tubbo. You know that, but that doesn’t mean you should shoulder everything.” Ranboo moves closer, leans down, and gently touches his upper arm. Tubbo almost jerks away, but squeezes his eyes shut and leans against him instead. “Will you let me comfort you?” Ranboo asks softly.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t have to say anything—I won’t either, if you don’t want me to.”

The wind swirls again, clouds looming overhead in an oncoming storm. It’ll begin to rain soon, but neither of them move. Tubbo silently worries for Ranboo’s safety.

“Okay,” he says, faint and weak. “Let’s—let’s go. Somewhere, anywhere. Not here. I can’t be here any longer.”

“Okay,” Ranboo repeats. “That’s alright.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ranboo pulls Tubbo up by the side of his arm and allows the brunet to lean against him as they walk; the grass crunches under their feet, flowers haphazardly planted being crushed beneath their feet, and Tubbo steals a few too many glances at the grave behind them, but he allows himself to grieve in his own way, ignoring the flames of guilt roaring in his stomach. “It’s okay,” Ranboo soothes again. 

It’s not okay—Tubbo knows that—but it will be. Someday.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/NETHERW4RT) :)


End file.
